Pia shrugged. Gardening wasn’t really her thing, but I knew she’d help if she thought it would make me feel better about the move.
We went back up to my bedroom, where Dave was settled on the window ledge looking out. He’d been very unhappy about being cooped up and had spent most of his time with his paws up on the window peering out. I knew that he was dying to go outside but I couldn’t let him – not for a good few weeks – in case he went wandering or tried to find his way back to Gran’s house. He kept giving me terrible looks like he hated me and whenever I came into a room, he’d turn his back on me like it was my fault and he was saying, I’m not your friend any more. Pia went over to stroke him and he nuzzled her hand with his nose.
‘He probably thinks that if he’s nice to you, you’ll sneak him out,’ I said. ‘But you’re not leaving me, Dave, you hear?’
He ignored me and purred loudly at Pia’s attentions.
‘How many staff houses are there?’ she asked as she looked out of the window.
‘Five. I haven’t met any of the neighbours yet. We’re going to meet some of the people who work here tonight. Dad’s asked everyone to a meeting at six to go over things and he said he’ll introduce us then, although I’ve met a few of them just walking about the place—’
‘Oh!’ Pia suddenly stepped back from the window and hid behind the curtain.
‘What?’
‘Boy. Down there. I think he saw me.’
I went over to the window and looked down. A good-looking boy with shaggy dark hair, dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt, was going into the house next door. He glanced up, saw me and waved. I waved back.
‘Who’s he?’ asked Pia.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Cute.’
‘He’s OK, not my type. Looks like a rugby player, stocky. I like slimmer boys like Tom.’
‘Good,’ said Pia, and she moved out from behind the curtain. ‘Because I think he’s Mr Hunky McFunky.’
I glanced down at him. He was still looking up with a cheeky grin on his face.
I laughed. ‘Now you really do have a good excuse to come visit, P. ’
She blushed. ‘OK, here’s your homework: Find out who he is. What star sign, what he’s like and . . . if he has a girlfriend.’
I saluted her. ‘Sometimes you are just like your mother. Mission received and understood. Will do.’
I looked down again. The boy had gone. He’d looked about Charlie’s age, maybe older.
‘Nice to know there’ll be someone around our age as a neighbour,’ I said.
Pia didn’t answer. She was still peeping out from behind the curtain, trying to see into next-door’s front room.
The staff get-together was held up in the party room on the fifth floor of the complex. I’d been looking forward to having my irises scanned as we went through but Dad said that the security system wouldn’t be up and running until next Monday, so we still had a week to move about freely. I took every opportunity to do so after Pia had gone home, and had a good explore as far as I could, although Dad had shown us most of it already.
As I wandered around, I met a few more of the staff. They were already in their places, even though the residents hadn’t arrived yet. I wrote notes so that I could remember everyone – plus give Pia, Meg and Flo the lowdown at school on Monday.
Jacob: Gym. Dutch but no accent. Blond, slim, muscly, tanned with blue eyes. Early thirties?
Poppy Harrington: Spa. Forties? Ex-model, fab figure, long dark hair worn tied up.
Poppy was friendly and spoke with a posh accent. She made me a cup of green tea (Yuck. I tried to drink it, but it tasted of grass.) She asked a lot of questions about Dad. I wondered if she fancied her chances with him. Since Mum, Dad hadn’t had a girlfriend, at least not one that Charlie or I knew about. I liked Poppy. I reckoned we could be friends and thought that I might encourage her and Dad by inviting her over. It would be fun to play Cupid.
Doormen: Didier – tall, handsome French man with a big smile, Yoram, an Israeli – Charlie says he’s ex-army. Not very friendly.
You can see by the muscles on both their arms and their chests that these two are not to be messed with – although they look a lot more approachable than the doormen outside the shops on Sloane Street.
Reception: a beautiful Indian girl called Sita, and Grace – tall, blonde and a bit scary and efficient-looking.
In the evening, at Dad’s request, Charlie and I got smartened up. For Chaz that meant jeans that weren’t falling off him and abandoning his usual hoodie for a T-shirt. I, on the other hand, made a big effort and wore my red camisole and short cardi, black skirt and boots.
We hadn’t seen the hospitality suite before and when we got there, it was way stylish. There was a small lobby near the lift which was similar in style to the Reception area downstairs. It opened through tall doors into the main room and at the back was a gleaming glass and chrome bar where a dozen stools covered in zebra-skin were lined up. On the bar were several bottles of wine, some cartons of juice and a few bowls of crisps for people to help themselves to, so Charlie and I went over to get a glass of apple juice.
Charlie went into a brill imitation of Dad and pointed at the walls. ‘Covered with plum leather and silver suede,’ he said then pointed to some modern sofas next to the gold armchairs. ‘The slim sofas you see there are Italian – only the best, you know – and have been positioned next to those gold armchairs to provide contrast. New and old. It’s the latest look. The chairs are antique. Worth a fortune, of course.’
I cracked up. I hadn’t heard him do his imitation of Dad for a long time.
‘As you can see, it’s a big space, so it has been sectioned off with black wrought iron and opaque glass screens to provide our residents with private seating areas.’ Charlie continued in Dad-speak as we looked around.
‘Good for sneaky snogging,’ I added.
‘Our residents do not snog, madam, far too common,’ said Charlie, still in his daft voice. He pointed up at the ceiling and continued. ‘Overhead a fluted silver rotunda holds the hundred mini lights that softly illuminate the room.’
‘Cost a fortune,’ we said at the same time, then laughed.
Actually, it really was impressive, particularly when someone pressed a button somewhere and the floor-to-ceiling glass doors slid open to reveal a terrace that stretched almost the width of the entire building. There were enormous pots with palm plants out there and it looked very sophisticated, especially because it was night-time and there was a fab view of the city twinkling away in the distance.
Everyone was chatting and having a jolly old time getting to know each other, though no-one looked like they’d dressed up that much, even though Dad had made us make an effort. We’d only been there a short while when Dad called for silence and introduced me and Charlie. It was so embarrassing. I’m not normally a blusher but I could feel myself going as red as my top as they all turned to look at us.
‘As for the rest of you,’ said Dad, ‘most of you already know each other but for those who don’t, when I call your name, please make yourselves known. Don’t worry if you can’t place everyone this evening – it will all fall into place, I promise. There are lists at the door for you to take away with you, saying who’s who, what they do and how you can all contact each other.’
I tried to remember everyone as their name was called out but there were too many of them and I had left my notebook back at the house. The gathered crowd soon became a blur of names and faces. Marguerite, who would be general housekeeper in charge of a team of cleaners and laundry people. Trevor, who would look after the underground garage and fleet of cars. Katie, Richard and Agnes who were hairdressers – and then Katie’s sister, Nicky, and her team of manicurists as well as beauticians, accountants, secretaries, valets, mechanics, porters, personal trainers, gardeners, chefs. The list went on and on. They seemed to be from all nations: Poland, Cyprus, Greece, India, Italy, Israel, France, the UK . . . I tried
to remember where everyone was from but in the end there were just too many names and places to remember. Most of them wouldn’t be living on-site – like the girls doing the beauty treatments, who would live nearby and just be on call. Others were based at the Imperial Lotus hotel next door, coming to Porchester Park as required. I looked for the cute boy Pia and I had seen, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Maybe he had known that he would be introduced and made to look like an idiot, so had wisely opted out.
‘Did you get who’ll actually be living in the staff houses?’ I asked Charlie as we made our way back to our house.
‘That tall dark woman—’ Charlie started.
‘Poppy. She looks after the spa,’ I said.
‘Yeah. Her. Didier and Yoram have one of the smaller houses each. Then there’s us, and Trevor who does the cars. All the rest of the staff live out. Apparently a lot of them are in another apartment block nearby or living locally.’
‘So who’s the boy I saw today, I wonder?’
Charlie shrugged, as if to say he didn’t know, then glanced down at the list that he’d picked up when we’d left the meeting. ‘One hundred and forty-four staff,’ he commented.
‘And Dad says that most of the residents have their own staff living with them on top of that. Most travel with their own chef, nanny, PA, hairdresser or whatever.’
‘Different world, hey?’
‘I guess,’ I said. ‘But one I think I could get used to.’
After I’d emailed Pia, Flo and Meg to tell them about the party, I settled down to sleep. I felt excited about the turn life had taken. After my initial resistance, I was beginning to see what life at Porchester Park had to offer. I had been lifted out of an OK-but-ordinary world and had been transported into an extra-ordinary one. My horoscope had said that Jupiter was predominant in my chart this month, which meant expansion and that my horizons would broaden. Maybe it meant moving here.
‘Bring it on, hey, Dave?’ I said to the furry lump at the end of my bed. He got up, stretched, gave me a dirty look, then turned his back. Unlike me, he hadn’t come around to accepting his new home just yet.
6
Settling In
By the following week, I’d got into a regular routine. Up early, go to the spa and swim for forty minutes, breakfast with Dad and Charlie, then catch the bus to school. Swimming in the pool was like going on holiday every morning and if I could practise daily, I would be well ready for the inter-school championship in December. Poppy let me use all the facilities and it was really luxurious in there, especially as I had the place to myself. The Olympic-sized pool was the perfect temperature and so pretty with its blue-and-turquoise mosaic at the bottom and the stunning painting of Neptune and his mermaids on the vaulted ceiling above, which I only saw when I turned to do backstroke.
After my swim, it was into the shower area with its enormous fluffy white towels and gorgeous Jo Malone products. I felt like a princess by the time I’d finished.
On the way back to the staff houses, if I had time, I’d have a chat with whoever was in Reception and it seemed they were all up for a bit of friendly banter and a laugh, apart from Yoram who, for some reason, seemed to regard me with suspicion and looked like he might kill me if I stepped out of line. Didier showed me his watch, which told the time in loads of different countries (though I couldn’t quite see the point of that, seeing as we were in England), and Sita usually asked me how I was, what I was up to and how school was going. I soon told her about Tom and the up-and-coming fundraiser and we discussed possible outfits. Grace wasn’t as friendly and barely glanced up at me from her computer screen or telephone. It always smelt divine in Reception from the enormous candle that was burnt in there daily. Sita told me that the fragrance was pomegranate noir and, like the products in the spa, was from Jo Malone. I wanted to get a candle for our house but when I looked them up online one evening when Aunt Maddie was over, I saw that a single big candle cost over two hundred pounds. Aunt Maddie had been outraged. ‘Some people have money to burn. Literally!’ Mum wouldn’t have balked. She’d have bought one of the smaller ones which were more affordable. She loved beautiful scents and always said that you get what you pay for.
After we’d settled in, Charlie and I finally got to see some of the apartments that had been done. Dad kept his promise and showed us three of them when he had a bit of time one evening after supper.
The first belonged to Mr and Mrs Gerard. Or Monsieur et Madame. Sieve ooh plait and ooh la la. They were Frenchies. He was an international art dealer and his apartment was like walking into an elegant, airy art gallery. They had one of the penthouses, and everywhere you looked were fabulous paintings, friezes, sculptures and artefacts.
‘Lots of old stuff,’ I said as I looked at an enormous painting in an ornate gold frame on the wall, then at two life-size gold statues of fat Arabian men in turbans.
‘Antiques,’ Dad said. ‘Italian, I think.’
‘Good for hanging your coat on,’ I commented as I looked at one of the statues’ outstretched hands.
Dad opened a door off the hallway. I peeked inside to see a dark office area with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves which were already stuffed with art books and magazines.
‘Monsieur Gerard had part of a sixteenth-century French chateau shipped over for his office,’ said Dad. ‘Look at the mother-of-pearl inlay at the top of those shelves.’
‘Wonder where her father is,’ I said.
‘Father?’ asked Dad.
‘Father of Pearl. Joke, Dad.’
In the living room, over a ginormous marble fireplace (also from Chateau Ooh La La), was a carved mirror with gilt griffins at the top and delicate bowers of roses cascading down around the sides. I liked the look Monsieur Gerard had created: very stately home with heavy brocade and velvet curtains in reds and golds, a humungous bronze chandelier that was almost as big as me and the big squashy red sofas covered with tapestry cushions. Très posh indeedie doodie. In tall glass cabinets in the corners of the room, various masks and smaller sculptures were displayed.
‘Bit scary looking,’ I said as I looked at one figure with a long face and extended belly.
‘Colombian,’ said Dad.
‘That one’s had too much of their coffee, by the looks of it,’ I commented as I pointed at the statue with the bloated stomach.
‘Worth a fortune, each one of them,’ said Dad. ‘Apparently Monsieur Gerard lends parts of his collection out to museums from time to time.’
‘Maybe he’d lend me the mirror with the griffins and the roses on. I’d like that,’ I said as we trooped upstairs after Dad. ‘We can do swapsies and he can borrow the lamp I got from Ikea this summer.’
‘Yeah right,’ said Dad. ‘I’m sure he’d be very open to that.’
‘The Chinese room?’ I said as we went into a room with dark red fabric on the walls.
‘Correct,’ said Dad. There was a black cabinet with delicate figures and flowers painted on it, above which hung a six-foot-high portrait of two fat Chinese men.
‘Maybe this is where he eats his Peking duck and noodle takeaway,’ said Charlie.
‘Doubt it,’ said Dad. ‘They have to keep these rooms at exactly the right temperature, so moisture from hot food would damage the artworks.’
‘Can you imagine?’ I said. ‘A room for whatever food you planned on eating. An Italian room for pizza . . .’
‘A French one for French fries . . .’ said Charlie.
Dad rolled his eyes and led us through to a bathroom. Even that was like walking back in time, with an ancient-looking mirror filling a wall on one side and a bath with gold claw-legs standing in the centre of the room.
‘Don’t see the point of a mirror that you can’t see yourself in,’ I said. ‘The glass is all foggy.’
‘It’s probably hundreds of years old,’ said Dad. ‘Imagine all the people who have looked at their reflection in it.’
‘I bet they all said, “C’est un crap mirror, needs un good polish,
ah oui”,’ I replied, in my best French accent.
‘You are surrounded by works of art and history. Don’t you like it?’ said Dad.
‘Yes. Course I do. I do. Way stylish. A bit like Gran’s house in fact – cluttered with artefacts on every surface.’
‘Yes, but unlike the junk at Gran’s,’ said Dad as we went back out into the hall, ‘the “nick-nacks” in this apartment are worth a bomb – like the frieze in the main hall – worth at least five million. And look at the paintings stacked over there.’
‘I know this print,’ I said as I checked out one leaning against the wall. ‘It’s by Picasso.’
‘And that one’s a Monet,’ said Charlie as he noticed another. ‘I remember from art history.’
‘They’re not prints,’ said Dad. ‘They’re originals.’
‘As in the real thing?’ asked Charlie.
Dad nodded.
‘Cool,’ I said. I wished Pia could see them.
Dad indicated a stack of other paintings lined up, waiting to be hung. ‘Monsieur Gerard is one of the biggest collectors in the world. Picasso, Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Degas. He has paintings by them all, plus a lot of modern work which I’m afraid I don’t recognise but which I’m told is very collectable. Some museums would kill for a piece of this. One of the Monets sold recently for eighty million. These paintings are all worth many millions, so now you can understand why our security is so important.’
‘Awesome,’ I said. ‘Think he’d like to buy one of my sketches from art class? I have an impressive drawing of a mouldy pear. Totally original. Not another like it in the world.’
Dad smiled and ruffled my hair. ‘Maybe when you’re older and you’ve made a name as the next Tracy Emin or Damien Hirst,’ he said.
‘I know Damien Hirst’s work,’ I said. ‘We saw an exhibition at the Tate on a school trip. He’s the guy who does dead cows and sheep in formaldehyde. I reckon I could knock a few of those out. Totally gross, though. I know Tracy Emin’s work too. She’s the one who put her unmade bed on display and said it was a work of art. Easy peasy, lemon squeasy.’
Million Dollar Mates Page 5